


lightning strike

by venndaai



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Hiking, Lokin has a sci fi dick that I will not explain, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV First Person Plural, Trans Male Character, Xeno, inadvisable sex, possibly the most niche self indulgent thing i've yet written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: Lokin is completely comfortable with us, in a way no other being who is not of the hive has ever been, not even the Agent. He is a remarkable man in many ways. Most notably to us, he appears utterly at home in his own skin.When we tell him this he chuckles. “The secret is understanding exactly who you are,” he says. “And then taking advantage of the miracles of modern science.”Perhaps that confidence is why he is not threatened by something which is different.
Relationships: Eckard Lokin/Vector Hyllus
Kudos: 12





	lightning strike

We retain our memories of the time before the Joining, memories belonging to a single, solitary self, an unhappy child trying on their mother’s cosmetics in a hot room, sunlight streaming down through a large colored window, light from a star whose song the child could not yet hear. We remember the awkward adolescence, the escape into academics, the decision to join the Diplomatic Service; the realization that the Republic was no more open-minded than the Empire, in some respects less, and the successful pursuit of a first contact exploration assignment. New planets, new peoples, but nothing truly alien until Alderaan, until the Hive, until the Song of the Nest took everything that human diplomat was and rewrote it.

“If you’re dissatisfied with your own appearance,” Lokin offers, “sex characteristics are really some of the easiest to alter.”

“Thank you for the offer,” we say, “but truly, we’re not unsatisfied.” It is true. We have access to the whole of the Song, including other Joiners. The ways in which their bodies differ from ours is now data that seems to have no meaning. Their bodies are ours, now, as much as this one is. As to how others see us, the black eyes have been useful. Strangers look at us now and do not think _man_ ; they think, alien. Monster. 

Once we would have hated that. Now we have the nest, its eternal love and support. There is doubt in this new life, there is fear, but there is not the specific fear of loneliness. Of not being understood. And though there is hardship now in being so far away from that source of love- it is ameliorated by new friendships. The agent sees neither man nor monster, just- Vector. And Lokin sees- 

We’re not sure. He smiles at us, as he flicks a fingernail against a small and narrow syringe. We are keeping him company in his tiny lab, pretending to read a datapad but really watching as he prepares one of several weekly injections. He has not yet indicated that our presence is unwelcome, and so we are here. “Until I am confident in my ability to modify my own pituitary,” he says, “I must mix my own hormones. The yellow is testosterone- I’ve taken that one for decades. The blue is the rakghoul serum, version twenty-one.”

“And the white?” we ask, when the pause has become noticeable.

Lokin gives us a sly, secretive smile. “A little experiment. Just for this month.”

And that is what we wonder- if we are just “a little experiment”. It would not be personal cruelty, we know. He is so self contained. Perhaps the entire galaxy outside his own mind is just a very large lab, to him. 

He cannot hear the song. He does not see the connections.

The needle slides into his bare pale stomach. His transformations are clinical, utterly under his control. Or at least, so it appears. We have seen him in his rakghoul form, observed the frenzy of killing and devouring. Perhaps this sterile white room is his way of balancing that wildness, or perhaps he enjoys the contrast. 

Our own transformation had nothing to do with needles and white plasteel and bright lights. We were taken into the warm wet darkness of the nest, and wrapped in a cocoon, and fed psychoactive nectars to lower our thresholds, and then the larva burrowed into our brain and the Joining began. There was a moment in that process when we were still singular but before our mind had been opened to the song, and in that moment we regretted, and we screamed without air and tore our hands against the inside of the cocoon. 

Then we were opened to the universe. 

We retreat, now, to the cargo hold, where we play Anora’s holo message again and again, searching for a new meaning, in the message or in ourself. 

“You need to get out of there. Come back to Dromund Kaas, and we’ll get you help. We can undo what the Kiliks did.”

“There are still people who care about you.”

We remember Anora. We remember dark rooms, rain outside the windows casting patterns on the floor. Arguments. Her voice, raised, in anger, perhaps. We were only human then. The pain could not be shared. It had to be suffered, in one uncomfortable body. 

We do not know if Anora could reverse the Joining, block the pheromones, surgically remove the growths, burn out every emissary nested in this body. We know it would be foolish to take her up on her offer. There are those on Dromund Kaas who would welcome the opportunity to dissect such an unusual specimen as us. 

It occurs to us then that for all his curiosity, we have never gotten such an impression from Lokin.

The question lingers. It is not a question whose answer is of any interest to the Nest. Only to us- to me. 

* * *

Somewhat to our surprise, Lokin accepts our trade of entertainments, and follows us cheerfully enough to the outskirts of Kaas City and the trail we found a year ago. The pair of us chatter about nutrition and the upkeep of our vibrostaff and the social habits of the sapphire-blue beetles that cling to the underside of fern fronds in the Kaas woods. Lokin is fond of talking, when he's in the mood for it. We are simply happy to be spending time with a friend.

Lokin is completely comfortable with us, in a way no other being who is not of the hive has ever been, not even the Agent. He is a remarkable man in many ways. Most notably to us, he appears utterly at home in his own skin.

When we tell him this he chuckles. “The secret is understanding exactly who you are,” he says. “And then taking advantage of the miracles of modern science.”

Perhaps that confidence is why he is not threatened by something which is different. 

Halfway to the top of the falls we pause to catch our breath. We’re stronger since the Joining, our endocrine system pumped with a vast variety of adrenals, but the doctor is still faster, and seems hardly out of breath at all, a striking contrast with the expectations created by his remaining patch of gray hair and the thinness of his limbs. He points out a good resting point, a pool fed by the falls and cradled in a green bowl carved into the side of the mountain. We sit, breathing in the wet air and the smells of earth and rain, and Lokin settles down next to us. Water droplets occasionally roll off of giant leaves above us to splash onto our jacket. The spray from the falls is a cool, noisy presence on one side of us. On the other, the jungle. We can feel the life moving all around us, from the tiny insects in the muddy grass to the giant yozusks and gundarks hunting through the thick underbrush. All of them sing to us, a million voices blending into harmony.

We visited Dromund Kaas before our Joining, to receive an honor from the Diplomatic service and to meet our intended fiance. We even did a bit of hiking then- foolish; we were soft and vulnerable in those days. We enjoyed the jungle, but it is as though before we were looking at a painting, and now we are experiencing the reality. 

Through us, the hive observes. If we are quiet we can hear the song, their thoughts and feelings from half a galaxy away. It is a very good thing, to have a Herald roaming far from the nests again. To bring sense-images of other worlds into the song. The hive is pleased.

Next to us, Lokin also seems content to enjoy the moment. He is heat and predator-scent, antiseptic over animal musk, his heartbeat a strong sharp note in the music of the jungle. 

The hive is interested in him. He would bring much to the song as a Joiner. But we as Vector know he would never accept that gift. He is more complete in his singularity than anyone else we have known. 

“I must thank you for dragging me out here,” he says, cheerfully. “I would never have done this on my own, but you were right; it is pleasant. As well as being wonderfully healthy exercise.”

“Have you ever done this hike before?”

“Never. I was a city child. We all knew better than to go into the jungle.” He smiles at a private memory. “I’ve done hikes like this on other worlds, but never here, before now.”

When we asked Kaliyo if she wished to join us- more, it must be said, out of a sense of obligation than a real desire for her company on this occasion- “I don’t third-wheel, baby. You two want to roll around in the mud, go wild. Don’t make me a part of it.”

“We do not understand your figures of speech,” we said. 

“Holy Sith,” she said, rolling her eyes at us. “You’re killing me, doll. Look, just stick your tongue down his mouth, okay? Keep it simple. And don’t involve your weird bug friends.”

“Oh,” we said, very much comprehending. 

But just because Kaliyo believed that was the direction our relationship with the doctor was heading in didn’t mean that she was correct. And testing the hypothesis might have disrupted the rapport we seemed to be building; we found we were reluctant to take that risk.

“Look,” Lokin says, pointing over our head. We twist our neck. It takes us a moment to guess what he is pointing at. Just barely visible, peeking over the crowns of the jungle trees, rises the sleek gray pillar of one of the city’s great lightning spires.

“That explains the way the large predators are avoiding this clearing,” he says. “Still, we should be perfectly safe, if you have no objections to the possibility of a light show.”

“That would be a new experience,” we say, looking at the spire.

“Did you know, we didn’t have those when I was born,” Lokin muses. “They’re only fifty or so years old. Half of Kaas City would be dark without-”

“Doctor,” we hear ourselves hiss, and feel ourselves grab at his jacketed arm. The flow of his words cuts off like a valve shut closed. He stares at us, round black eyes fixed on our face, animal eyes, we’ve always thought, without the hidden meanings contained in the eyes of other humans. His aura is coruscating, burned flesh and the screech of colliding protons. Above us, beneath us, we feel the building potential difference, the unbearable pressure, hurtling towards a climax. Under our hands, Lokin feels just as vast and dangerous and exhilarating. We sink to our knees on the wet ground, springy with clover. He kneels with us, not breaking contact. The pressure is crushing our skull, our eardrums. Our hair stands on end. 

The lightning strikes. For a fraction of a second, the world is blindingly bright. Then the sky is torn apart above our heads, and the noise is deafening. 

“Fascinating,” we hear Lokin say some time later, as the brightness fades from our vision. We can barely hear him over the ringing in our ears, but we recover fast; the words are becoming clearer. “You must be highly sensitive to electrical fields. Electroreception is usually found in aquatic species, but I did suspect it was a component of your ‘aura’ sense.” 

“Doctor,” we manage to say, though speech is difficult. We want to rub forearms, to excrete pheromones. Words are such a limited medium of communication. But he is a mammal- even the parts of him that are not human would not understand our song in even the most limited of ways. We must speak in the languages that we share, and quickly, to relieve the tension building in us as unstoppable as the lightning. “You have been a good friend to us.”

He smiles. His hands are warm on our shoulders. “No,” he says. “I haven’t. But I’m honored that you’d say so.” 

“We treasure that connection,” we say. “But we believe there may be- another connection. An attraction. We would be interested in exploring that- if you were interested.” 

His hands slide up, to rest on our neck.

“I’m very pleased to hear you say that,” he says, and slowly but smoothly he leans forward, and sinks his teeth into our flesh. 

Pleasure is different, in the hive. The nest comes together, for dancing or merging, and there are many bodies touching, slick with excretions and the nectar of the givers. For those participating, we give ourselves entirely to the dance, sometimes with such frenzy that some are torn to pieces and consumed. There is no surprise in it, no submission. We are all aware of each movement, each surge of feeling. 

As far as we are aware, rakghouls do not naturally take part in such pleasure-seeking activities. It is the human sexual drive which kindles that flame that burns in Lokin when he bears us down to the wet soft ground. But we believe the rakghoul desire for consumption, for devouring, is present in the way he sucks at our skin, bites our lips until we taste hot red. He tears at our clothing with rapidly growing fingernails, and we help as best we can, letting scarf and coat fall on the earth. He is dominating, and we allow ourselves to be dominated, dizzy with the rush of a new experience. Our body yields easily. The glands we have grown beneath our skin secrete lubrication where his hands touch. It slicks our chest, our stomach, our thighs under our robes. 

He pauses, then, observing the milky pale substance. “Do we know,” he says, “that this is nontoxic to humans? Or rakghoul hybrids, for that matter? I ran several tests on your saliva several weeks ago, but it occurs to me that I cannot be certain we are biologically compatible.” 

He expects a response from us, but we are beyond speech. Seeing this, he withdraws, leaving us to moan and pant on the ground. Slowly, the fever recedes. Our breathing slows. 

“If you are concerned with safety, Doctor,” we manage to say at last, “we are perplexed as to why you would copulate in this location in the first place.” 

He regards us for a moment. “I suppose,” he says, “that life would be very dull without some risk.” He puts a hand on our cheek, and now the touch is soft, though his skin is very hot. “Are you all right? I do not always have perfect control, these days. If you have any trepidation, let us abandon this line of exploration.”

“We are more than all right,” we say. “Do you understand- when you are with us, you are with the nest. There is no privacy. The experience is shared by all.” 

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, and leans over us again. Before he touches, however, he moves our coat and scarf to pillow our head and shoulders, lifting us with surprising gentleness. We slip out of our lower robe and underclothes, and the scattered gusts of rain now combine with our own secretions to moisten us. He removes his own jacket and undershirt and trousers, his motions methodical and yet compelling to us. His chest is moon pale in the overcast light, the scars neat and only slightly darker than the surrounding skin.

He is small, and his hands are small, and his wrists narrow, but he seems vast as he touches us, his mouth on our mouth, on our neck, his hands between our thighs. We touch him too, the glands on our palms rubbing our oils into his pale arms, the light cover of colorless hair. 

He brings us to the brink of climax with only his fingers, then pauses to inject a stim of some kind into his inner thigh. “I’ll regale you with the mechanical details later, if you’re interested,” he whispers into our ear. “After I’ve thoroughly disinfected my travel kit.” He enters us easily, pulls our knees up around his waist. His aura is all around us, fizzing and sparking and burning. We touch his arms, his face, the back of his neck. Lightning strikes again, and we sing as he moves within us, we cannot hear the noise but we feel the scream in our throat, we feel the vibrations in our body joining with the vibrations of the Song of the Universe, and on Alderaan the Kind sing back to us. The fingerlings sleeping inside our body thrum with the wish to wake and hatch and sing to the sky. _Not yet. Not yet. The time has not yet come._

Afterward Lokin sits back, wipes himself clean and lies back in the grassy hollow next to us, head tilted to look at us. We feel a desire to nest, to enfold him with our limbs. He is pleasingly small, we could easily encircle him; but he might feel trapped, oppressed by our presence, and so we lie still on our back, looking up through the light rain at the patterns of storm clouds. 

"We do not wish to be anywhere else," we say. It seems important to us, to say that. 

"I'm glad," he says. He seems contemplative. "I think we could all take lessons from you, Vector. On the importance of living in the moment." 

We want so badly to be able to reach him. Unity, merging, joining. 

But there is a strange lonely beauty, in unsolvable mystery. 

"We can wash in the falls," he says. "And then let's get dressed. Don't want to catch chill at my age!" And his eyes twinkle. And his aura sparks. 


End file.
